


Gaven Whitehorne Wants To Get In My Pants!

by NickelModelTales



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1980s, Comedy, Dubious Consent, F/M, Hollywood, Hypnotism, Porn With Plot, Rock Stars, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-30 21:04:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15759666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NickelModelTales/pseuds/NickelModelTales
Summary: When a top Hollywood talent agency goes all-out to sign a skeevy rock star, one of the agency’s lowliest employees finds herself as the object of the star’s horny obsession.





	1. Chapter 1

***DISCLAIMER 1***

This is a work of sheer fiction, and absolute smut at that. In no way, shape, or form could these events happen in real life.

***DISCLAIMER 2***

This work contains detailed descriptions of sex acts. Also, one character is coerced into the sex, so you might view all sex acts as nonconsensual. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 3***

This work involves a woman becoming mentally enslaved to a man, and he takes full advantage. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 4***

If you made it through Disclaimers 1 through 3, we should also add that this work is in very poor taste and is probably not suitable for anyone. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

****************************************************************************************************************

 

**Burbank, CA**

**1985**

I first came to Hollywood to be an actress.  That’s me, Carrie Crowley, professional actress.  Remember that name.

Everyone back home said I had what it took.  I’ve always been pretty, with a nice figure, thank you very much.  I can play the nice, sweet girl, but I’m tough as nails.  I’m great on the stage and even did a little local public access TV.  So of course I went to Hollywood.

My first few months right off the bus were rocky.  After a thoroughly gross stay in the world’s filthiest hostel, I found Viv.  Viv is another aspiring actress, and of course I met her at an audition.  We both read for the same part… but neither of us got it.  I must have looked bummed, because she took pity on me and we did lunch together.  By the end of the day, we were the best of friends.  By the end of the month, we were roommates.

Our flat is in North Hollywood, close to Burbank, but hardly a posh neighborhood.  Most of our neighbors are a little dodgy, if you ask me.  But it will do for now.

***********

But meanwhile, acting work just didn’t happen.  I’m not sure why; I went to every audition under the sun.  I tried out for anything, literally anything.  Well, not erotica.  But anything else.

I didn’t realize how badly I was striking out until a casting agent pulled me aside one day.  “Hey, I know you,” he exclaimed.  “You did, like, three auditions with me last week.  I’m Sid.”

“Hi Sid,” I said, hoping he was about to offer me a job.

Sid was middle-aged.  (That means **_older_** than forty, right?)  With thinning hair, a bulging gut, and truly atrocious taste in clothes, Sid was one impressively ugly man.  His breath also stank.

“Listen, babydoll,” Sid said, staring directly at my chest, “I know you want to be an actress.  But I don’t see it happening, you dig?”

My heart sank.

“You might have a future in this business,” he went on.  “Have you ever thought of getting into producing?”

I blink.  Producing?  I don’t know what a producer does.  Apart from not cast me.

“That sounds real interesting, Sid,” I say, hoping I sound sincere.

Sid nods.  “Listen, babydoll, there’s a million ways to get there.  You want work?  I can help.”  He presses a damp business card into my hands.  “Be here tomorrow, eight AM.  Wear a suit.”

I nod.  I’m impressed that while Sid has been starting at me for our whole conversation, not once did he make eye contact.

***********

The business card was for AGA Talent.  “Ooo, they represent some big names,” Viv exclaims, when I show her.

My spirits lift.  They want to represent me?

So I report to the address right at 8:00 am, just as Sid requested.  I sit in the lobby, nervously fingering my headshot.  The receptionist smiles at me, but the smile is not warm.

And then Sid appears, dressed even more horribly than before.  “Carrie!” he exclaims.  I’m impressed he remembers my name.

Sid takes me back to his office, which is small and smells worse than he does.  I’m alarmed when he sits on the couch and indicates I’m to sit next to him.

“Listen, babydoll,” he says, talking very fast and staring directly at my breasts again, “I look at you, and you know what I see?”

“Prettiness?” I guess lamely.

“Yes!  Exactly!”  Sid beams.  “You, kid, are gorgeous.  Gorgeous with a capital ‘G.’  Believe me, you’ve got the looks, the body…  Mmmm!”

I think I’m being complimented.

“But you’ll never make it as an actress,” Sid goes on.  “You just don’t have the training.”

My heart plummets into my shoes.  “But-“ I protest.

Sid cuts me off with a wave and a determined shake of his head.  “ ** _No_** , babydoll,” he says.  “The girls who get cast, they have the looks, the bod, the hair, the voice, just like you.  But they also have speech class, movement class, scene analysis, character analysis, workshop credits.  You have none of that.  You’re never gonna get cast without that training.”

I protest again, but Sid refuses to listen.  “No,” he says firmly.  “I’ve seen it a million times.  Without training, no-one’s gonna cast you.  No one.”

“I see,” I say numbly.

Sid breaks out into a wide smile.  He’s still talking to my chest.  I don’t think he’s looked into my eyes once.

“Cheer up, dollface,” he tells me.  “I’ve got another option for you.”

The casting agent moves a little closer to me on the couch.  “You ever hear of an Industry Pretty Girl?” he leers.

A **_what?_**   I shake my head.

“Most haven’t,” Sid assures me.  “Listen, so AGA Talent is one of the biggest agencies in the business, and do you know why?”

I shake my head.

“Because we sign the biggest names!” exclaims Sid.  He rattles off the current client list, which is impressive indeed.  “But do you know how we sign those A-Listers?”

I shake my head.

“Because we wine and dine the top talent like no-one else.  Let’s say I’m Tom Cruise and I’m looking for new representation.  I come to AGA, and do you know who I greet when I walk through the door?”

I shake my head.

Sid presses on:  “There’s a pretty girl there!  The most gorgeous girl you can imagine!  Right away, she says, ‘May I take you upstairs, Mr. Cruise?’  And when he get upstairs, you know what?  There’s **_another_** gorgeous girl!  She says, ‘May I get you some water, Mr. Cruise?’  And yet another gorgeous girl who says, ‘Would you like a warm hand towel, Mr. Cruise?’   And so on.”

I’m beginning to get the picture.

“From the moment he arrives to the moment he leaves, Mr. Tom Cruise’s every whim is served up by a gorgeous girl,” Sid says proudly, as if describing a precious trade secret.  “So **_of course_** Tom Cruise signs on with AGA.  Everyone signs on with AGA.”

“So whaddya say?” Sid finishes.  “You want to be an AGA Industry Pretty Girl and meet all of the top talent?  I don’t think you’ll get cast what with this resume, but you could become a producer this way.  Stranger things have happened.”

I’m not sure, but I think he’s actually offering the job to my breasts.  He certainly seems to have forgotten I am here.

***********

“Take the job,” Viv shrugs.  “The money will be good, and they probably won’t ask you to do a lot.  Plus, this Sid guy is right; you probably will meet a lot of important people.  That might get you cast someday.”

So I rack up $500 on my credit cards and buy a small wardrobe of business suits and high heels.  On my first day as an AGA Industry Pretty Girl, I’m asked to sit outside reception and manage the chilled water bottles.  That’s it; my sole responsibility is to manage the water bottles.

Thankfully, I am not working with Sid.  At AGA, the most important people seem to be the agents, men who wear **_very_** expensive suits and have expansive offices on the top floors of our building.

“Learn to recognize those guys by name,” Shelly, another Industry Pretty Girl advises me.  “They bring in the clients, so they run the show here.  If they ask you for **_anything_** , you get it.”

She’s not kidding.  In my first week alone, an agent asks me to fetch a magnolia-scented towel, then a painting from the lobby, then two bottles of pink champagne, then something called “sushi” from a delivery boy at the loading dock.  I have no idea what these things are needed for, but the idea is to get them quick.

I also have some contact with the potential clients.  During my second week, a sitcom star – I can’t say who – came to tour our offices.  The wooing agent, an imposing fellow named Ted Bingsly, made sure that all the Pretty Girls were there to greet him.  That’s all I had to do.  Stand in a line, smile when So-and-So smiled at me, and say, “So nice to meet you.”

Ted Bingsly signed that star within an hour.  “He really know what he’s doing,” Shelly said, admiration in her voice.  At AGA, Ted is a powerhouse.

I like working for Ted.  He is gruff and swears **_a lot_** , but he can read a client very well and has a sixth sense about how to use the resources at his disposal to flatter potential clients.  Before the talent arrives, he always arranges us Pretty Girls with specific instructions and props.  I always feel like a chess piece when he gives me direction… but when that star comes in to be wooed, Ted’s instincts are usually dead-on.

***********

After four months at this job, I am starting to get a little bored.  Being a Pretty Girl is more about being **_looked at_** than doing anything.  There’s only so many ways you can offer water and not feel underchallenged.  I find myself wishing I could go out for more auditions.  I still want to be an actress.

So I chat with a few people in the industry.  For someone like me, there are two roads to perform in front of the camera.  The first?  Study acting at film school.  The second?  Porn.

I prefer the first option.

So I meet with advisors at UCLA, who tell me, of course I have a future in their acting programs.  I am excited to sign up, until I learn how much tuition is.  Ulp.  I think I can swing those costs, but I’ll need to keep my job at AGA for the time being.  It could take three years or more to save up the money.

***********

And then…

Gaven Whitehorne came to be wooed.

Of course, Gaven Whitehorne is not his real name.  He is the lead singer of a band I also cannot name, and also cannot stand.  But his screaming vocals and completely sexist attitude towards women have sold twenty-seven million albums, so he is on AGA’s radar.  Word is that the entire band has signed… except for Gaven.  Gaven is the last holdout.

“We have fucking got to sign Gaven Fucking Whitehorne, get me?” Ted Bingsly growls to an assembly of the entire AGA staff.  “I don’t care if he fucking asks us to fucking serenade him on the fucking harp!  Can any of you fucking Pretty Girls play the fucking harp?”

None of us Pretty Girls can play the harp.

“Remember,” Ted bellows at everyone, ” ** _What Gaven Wants, Gaven Gets!_** ”

 ** _WGWGG!_**   We’re committed.

***********

AGA has two days to get ready for Gaven Whitehorne.  Supposedly Gaven only likes white M&Ms, so we custom-order 5,000 white M&Ms and place them in little crystal bowls around the exec floor.  Total Cost:  $20,000.  Gaven doesn’t drink water, only Australian root juice.  We don’t know what Australian root juice is, but we have five barrels of the stuff flown in overnight.  Total Cost:  $17,500.  Gaven has an aversion to the color orange, and wouldn’t you know it, the trim in the executive lounge has an orange tint, so it must be replaced in a hurry.  Cost: $90,000.  AGA is determined to land this client.  I wouldn’t be surprised if someone researched and secured Gaven’s preferred toilet paper.

As for me, well… I’m off water duty thanks to Mr. Whitehorne’s eclectic tastes.  If I’m lucky, I’ll simply be asked to stand in the lobby and smile at him when he arrives.  It’s a ridiculous way to earn a paycheck.

G-Day finally arrives.  Ted has even more frantic energy than usual.  He has arranged an exclusive sales presentation for Gaven which supposedly was designed by the guys who did the “Star Wars” special effects and NASA engineers.  He has flown in one of the three chefs in the world who knows how to make Gaven’s favorite meals, something entirely in tofu.  He has arranged for four Pretty Girls to throw scented rose petals at Gaven’s feet no matter where he goes… even if he heads into the washroom.  No detail has been left to chance.

I’m one of seven Pretty Girls with absolutely nothing to do.  No matter.  Ted positions us “useless” Pretty Girls outside the executive boardroom.  All we have to do is beam at Gaven when he is ushered by.

***********

And then…  its showtime.

An alert comes up from the parking garage:  Gaven’s limo is here!  Gaven himself is riding up the executive elevator!  This is not a drill!

Everyone scurries to man their battle station.  I position myself outside the Exec Boardroom with the other “useless” girls.  I’m wearing my beige suit, the one with the tiny miniskirt which hugs my hips and the blouse with the lowest neckline.

“Everyone fucking ready?!?” screams Ted, that vein in his temple throbbing a little more than usual.

AGA’s top power agent assumes position right before the exec elevator.  We all wait.

And wait.

And wait.

 ** _No-one_** dares move.

And then… the elevator chime dings!  The doors roll open.

Ready for this moment, our DJ (Cost: $10,000) begins playing Gaven’s latest album on the sound system.  The rose petal girls swoop in, showering the floor in a cloud of red, organic confetti.  Ted’s demeanor instantly becomes warm and charming.  He’s an entirely different person now.

“Ah, Mr. Whitehorne!” I hear him exclaim.  “Welcome to AGA.”

I want to crane my neck to see this God of Rock, but I dare not.  All of us wait, anticipating the Greatness to come to us.

“’Ay, man,” I hear a gruff, scratchy voice say.  The two words are badly slurred together.

“Right this way, Mr. Whitehorne,” Ted says.

And then I see him.  Gaven Whitehorne.  He is a short, thin man, with long, stringy hair that dangles all down to his waist in clumpy wisps.  His skin is badly wrinkled, although I’ve read he is just thirty-six.  His eyes are behind large, black sunglasses, but I can see his bramble-like beard and yellow teeth from here.  Impressively, he wears black leather pants… and nothing else.  And enormous tattoo of… I’m guessing here… naked women wrestling a three-headed snake is splayed across his scrawny chest.  He has three rings on each finger.  And he walks in a meandering pattern, which means he’s drunk or permanently impaired.  Maybe both.

Ted leads Gaven, the rose petal girls (shelling out petals madly), and Gaven’s large entourage in my direction.  Gaven’s people look like a Viking clan had babies with a motorcycle gang and everyone grew up in a prison.  They all smell… very interesting.

“We’re all so excited to host you, Mr. Whitehorne,” Ted schmoozes.

“Well, ah’m happy t’b’here,” slurs Gaven.  “’Ay, man, where da fashuzzle ‘n whusspuss at?”

Ted’s smile freezes somewhat.  “I’m sure we can look into that matter,” he assures our guest.

The party draws closer.  I assume my smile.  Its what I’m paid for.

“Naw naw naw naw, man,” Gaven harumphs, then belches loudly.  “Ah mean, where d’y’keep them-“

He stops mid-sentence and mid-stride.  The entire procession lurches to an awkward standstill.  Ted looks mildly panicked.

We all watch the rock star, wondering whatever the matter could be.

“Shalza!” Gaven exclaims.  We have no idea what that means, but Gaven’s friends exchange quick glances.

I suddenly realize… Gaven is staring at me.

Its not easy to be sure, of course.  His sunglasses are so dark, no-one can actually see his eyes.  And Gaven’s head is always bobbing and weaving, never quite holding still.  Nonetheless, I have the distinct feeling he’s looking me up and down.

“Mr. Whitehorne,” Ted pleads.  “If you would…”

Gaven waves a dismissive hand.  He saunters… well, stumbles… well, let’s just say he **_moves_** forward, coming straight up to me.  I see his wide mouth smile.  He is missing three yellow teeth, and his breath could wither an oak.

“Well, hallo hallo hallo puuuurty lady,” Gaven croons at me.

Without waiting for an answer, the rock star throws his right arm around my shoulder and leans in.  His lips are soon kissing my hair.  Not my cheek.  Not my neck.  My hair.

“Mr. Whitehorne!” Ted gasps.

Gaven flops his left hand at Ted, a dismissive “fuck you” wave.  He presses against me.

“Whaddya pitch yer ga’shabaa?” he asks me.

I smile as if I am flattered, and gently – but firmly – remove Gaven’s arm.  “Mr. Whitehorne,” I say, “if you would accompany Mr. Bingsly?”  I gesture to the boardroom.

A fellow from the Whitehorne retinue steps forward.  “Hey Gaven,” the man murmurs.  “Com’on, dude.  We ain’t here for tail.”

I eye this fellow.  He is black and quite tall, with an enormous belly supported on two spindly chicken legs.  He’s wearing what I think is a Brooks Brothers suit matched with lots of biker leather.  Interesting.  His face looks grumpy even when set to neutral.  His head is completely bald.  I’m guessing he is in his mid-thirties?  Thank God that he understands the proper application of cologne.

Baldie claps an enormous hand on Gaven’s shoulder.  He tries to pull the rock star away.

“Naw!  Naw naw naw naw, bro, naw,” Gaven snarls, and lurches back to plant himself before me.  “Ah a’dizzle now all fruitferters.”

Gaven turns back to me and starts making kissy-kissy faces at me.  His lips smack loudly together.

Baldie sighs.  “Mr. Whitehorne says the negotiations can continue,” he informs Ted.  “But only if this young lady will accompany him.”

***********

And so, I am swept into the executive boardroom with Gaven, the entire Whitehorne procession, the Rose Petal girls, the DJ, the “Star Wars” guys, the NASA scientists, the tofu chef, Ted Bingsly, and half the top executives at AGA.  Gaven and his party set up court on one side of the enormous marble conference table, and somehow I am seated on Gaven’s right side.  Ted and the AGA people sit on the opposite side, facing us with hopeful but strained smiles.  Even our ancient CEO, Winston Forrestal, is here.

Ted acts as MC.  “If you would be so kind, Mr. Whitehorne,” he says.  “We here at AGA would like to show you how much we think you mean to music… and America!”  He gestures to the boardroom movie screen.

The lights dim and the projector gets rolling.  Ted’s film includes footage from Gaven’s concerts, shots of screaming female fans, and lots of American flags.  There are laser lights and 3D computer graphics and one or two smoke effects.  I think the film’s narrator is Charlton Heston.

But I don’t believe Gaven once looks at the screen.  From the moment he sits, he leans over the arm of his chair, trying to plaster his face against mine.  I try to sit still and smile politely while he coos at me and waggles his tongue.  Occasionally he resumes the kissy noises.  Once or twice, he tries to trace the lines of my cheekbones with his finger.  I get poked more than caressed.

The film ends with the Boston Symphony playing Gaven’s Greatest Hits while an impressive 3D hologram of Gaven Whitehorne riding a rainbow unicorn rotates before us.  The lights come up.  All the AGA executives, blinking and shielding their eyes, turn hopefully to Gaven.

The room is silent.

Gaven, seemingly oblivious to everyone but me, coils a strand of my hair around his little finger.  To me and me alone, he says, “Saaaaaaay, yer like t’b’a’top?  Ur up th’butt?”

Ted clears his throat, loudly.  “Ah, Mr. Whitehorne,” he says, “if I might interrupt…  Could we review what I think is a very generous package that AGA has assembled-“

Baldie, sitting to Gaven’s left, cuts in.  “Mr. Whitehorne would like to hear about your offer.”

“Ah…” Ted says, his eyes shooting between Gaven and Baldie, “…I see.  Hmm.  Very well.”

The superagent snaps his fingers, and Pretty Girls appear, handing out leather-bound portfolios to the Whitehorne people.  Baldie calmly takes one, perching reading spectacles on the tip of his nose.  Gaven accepts another portfolio, but tosses it carelessly at his flunkies.  Never once does the God of Rock stop looking at me.

Ted begins walking the Whitehorne entourage through the particulars of the paperwork.  I listen, but am busy fending off Gaven, who is getting more and more insistent.  Meanwhile, Baldie and other Whitehorne associates interrupt constantly, asking pointed questions about royalties or copyright or image approval or the amount of square footage required for Gaven’s wardrobe when he goes on tour.  Numbers are questioned, occasionally haggled, and then usually raised when Baldie glares at Ted.

Gaven doesn’t seem to notice any of this.  He leans even closer to me and says, “Ay, y’wanna sit rah here, lovey lovey?”  He rubs his crotch.

I smile.  “No, thank you, Mr. Whitehorne,” I demur.

“Aw, I getcha,” Gaven assures me.

He lurches to his feet, then flops down in my lap.  I see the eyes of the AGA people pop.

“Ah, muchamucha better, so niiiiiice,” says Gaven.  He wraps both snakelike arms around me and starts whispering a string of filthy promises in my ear.

I glance at Ted, who is sweating under Baldie’s interrogation.  I’ve never seen Ted so flummoxed.

I consider my situation.  If I wasn’t at work, and this was a nightclub, I’d swiftly knee Gaven Whitehorne in the balls and think about the morality of my actions later.  But this is AGA.  If I rebuff Gaven, well, I have a funny feeling this summit will head south mighty fast.

But what the hell am I supposed to do?  Make out with this sleezeball?  Even if I could get past his horrid appearance, or his smell, or his songs calling women ‘fuck-bitches,’ or his controversial political statements, or his apparently severe lack of motor coordination, I couldn’t possibly fake the slightest attraction to this man.  I just couldn’t do it.

So I politely smile, try not to inhale, and repeatedly remove Gaven’s hands from my body.  Oh, I am so earning today’s paycheck.

“Well,” Baldie announces after what feels like hours, “this all seems in order.  Gaven?”

Instantly Gaven disengages from me.  He swings around to look at Baldie.  “Wha’s th’magol, scrumptious wonder-man?”

Baldie replies, “They’re offering the expected figures.  Additional: 3.5% on the front end, plus 7% retrograde, 6.5% underhaul, 12.5% after that, and five-by-six-by-eleven on the merch.”

Gaven bobs his head.  We can’t tell if he’s nodding, shaking it “no,” or having a stroke.

“Waddabout t’glick?” he asks, his voice hard.

“Seven over seven,” Baldie replies neutrally.

“Th’fizzle?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Plerb?”

“Covered.”

“Cozza ‘n plaaz?”

“Covered.”

In a clear voice, Gaven asks, “Boobs?”

All of the AGA people – myself included – gasp.

Baldie doesn’t blink.  “That’s on you,” he says.

Gaven doesn’t react, per se.  He swings back to me, turning on the charm again.  “Yer wanna see sump’in soooo wizzzard?” he asks me coyly.

Ted and the execs are visibly sweating.  I see Ted nodding franticly at me over Gaven’s scrawny shoulder.

“Why, yes,” I lie.  “Yes I would.”

Gaven climbs to his feet, which involves a lot of gyration.  He grins at me, then unzips and drops his pants.  He isn’t wearing underwear.

All the Pretty Girls in the room screech is shock.  The AGA execs cover their mouths or their eyes.  CEO Winston Forrestal faints dead away in his chair.  Strangely, none of the Whitehorne people so much as twitch.  I guess they’re used to their boss showing off his wee-wee in corporate meetings.

“Naw we fuuuk naw, okaysie?” Gaven asks me, smiling and waggling his eyebrows.

I force a polite smile.  “I don’t think that’s on the itinerary, Mr. Whitehorne,” I say.

“S’awww…!” Gaven assures me.  He gestures to the conference table.  “’ere?”

“No thank you, Mr. Whitehorne,” I stress.  Just to empathize the point, I demurely glance downward.

Gaven’s smile melts.  He throws a furious glare at Baldie, who simply shrugs.

The rock star frowns and snaps his fingers.  Two of his flunkies swarm over and restore his pants.  The one in white gloves delicately zips him up.

Gaven turns and stumbles from the room, roaring incomprehensible language as he does.  All his party stand and follow him.

Ted’s jaw goes slack as he watches his dream client storm off.  “But… but… but…” is all the poor man can manage.

The AGA people exchange stricken glances.  One of the Pretty Girls attempts to revive our unconscious CEO.

And then, Baldie appears in the doorway.  As usual, he is expressionless.

“Mr. Whitehorne asked me to thank you for your generous offer,” the huge man tells us.  “And that he is inclined to sign your contract.”

Ted beams.  “He is???”

Baldie holds up a hand.  “Two conditions,” he intones.  “First, Mr. Whitehorne wants to review the entire contract in the privacy of his home.”

“Second,” he adds, “Mr. Whitehorne wants only **_her_** to bring it to him.”

And Baldie gestures to me.

***********


	2. Chapter 2

***DISCLAIMER 1***

This is a work of sheer fiction, and absolute smut at that. In no way, shape, or form could these events happen in real life.

***DISCLAIMER 2***

This work contains detailed descriptions of sex acts. Also, one character is coerced into the sex, so you might view all sex acts as nonconsensual. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 3***

This work involves a woman becoming mentally enslaved to a man, and he takes full advantage. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 4***

If you made it through Disclaimers 1 through 3, we should also add that this work is in very poor taste and is probably not suitable for anyone. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

****************************************************************************************************************

 

When I get home that night, I duck immediately into the shower.  I remember Gaven’s leering, and I can’t cleanse my body enough.

Viv and I order Chinese and watch “Knots Landing.”  During the commercial break, I ask my roommate if she likes Gaven Whitehorne.

“Gaven Whitehorne?” cries Viv.  “Omigod, I love him!  He’s so hot.”

“I have to go to his house tomorrow,” I say dully.

“Whaaaa?” Viv exclaims.  “Get out!  Can you take me?”

“Maybe you can wear my clothes and go in a me disguise,” I say thoughtfully.  I’m half-serious.

“Gaven Fucking Whitehorne,” Viv sighs.  “Why can’t I meet that kind of celebrity?  They say he as an **_enormous_** cock.”

“Oh,” I inform her, “its quite usual-sized.”

“Whaaaaa?” Viv squeaks again, this time in a higher pitch.  “You lucky bitch!”  She laughs and playfully throws a couch cushion at my head.

***********

The following day, I prepare for my next encounter with Mr. Gaven Whitehorne.  I’m under no illusions as to what that lecherous greaseball wants.  I dress accordingly.

Although the weatherman is predicting mid-eighties, I squeeze into my highest turtleneck sweater, long slacks, and my one pair of high, skinny boots.  No cleavage, no legs, no skirt, nothing which might let Gaven see more than my face and my hands.  I would wear a nun’s habit or a spacesuit to this meeting if I thought I could get away with it.  I also pull my hair up, slather on some pale makeup, and select my large “Jackie O” sunglasses.  If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to fake a cold and Gaven will sign the papers and leave me alone.

Meanwhile, an AGA limo arrives at my apartment, ready to whisk me up into the Hollywood Hills to the Whitehorne Estate.  My neighbors stare as the chauffeur does a feeble job of trying to parallel park among our used Volkswagen Beetles and Chevys.

Inside the back of the limo are about ten AGA executives and Ted Bingsly, all somehow crammed into the white leather seats, all looking miserable.

Ted forces a smile when he sees me.  “Ah, Miss…  er, Miss…?”

“Crowley,” I inform him.

“Ah, yes, Miss Crowley,” Ted schmoozes.  “Some of the boys… and I… wanted to fucking see you off on your fucking visit to Mr. Whitehorne’s.”

I look over the cramped faces of the execs.  Not one of them looks happy in the slightest.

“How kind,” I feign.  “Um… where am I to sit?”

Apparently, none of these blockheads realized I would require a seat.  There is a furious debate over who should surrender his place in the limo, and finally Max Voldercamp, a junior exec, is ejected.  We leave poor Max on my sidewalk, staring uncomfortably at my North Hollywood neighbors.

On the bumpy ride up into the Hills, every exec is shouting desperate instructions at me:

“Make sure Mr. Whitehorne knows: we can go higher on the residuals!”

“But don’t let him change the bottom percentages!”

“The premium tour dates are already locked in; you can’t let him reneg on those!”

“Gentlemen!” Ted Bingsly roars.  “Miss… er…”

“Crowley.”

“Miss Crowley is just a fucking Pretty Girl!  She can’t be fucking expected to understand any of this!”

His nostrils flaring, Ted presses a leather-bound contract into my arms.  “Just get the fucker to sign,” he growls at me.  “I don’t care what you have to fucking do, just get him to fucking sign.”

“I assume,” I say dryly, “that I won’t be expected to bear Mr. Whitehorne’s children?”

Ted nods.  “Well,” he says slowly, “let’s just say that if you were, then AGA would-“

My jaw drops open and I slap Ted in the face.  I can’t help it.

“Right,” Ted blinks.  “I fucking deserved that.  Now, if we **_does_** want to have kids with you, AGA is prepared…”

***********

Our overcrowded limo groans up to the Whitehorne mansion gates, which are painted gold and feature snakes carved into the iron.  At the guardhouse, three, um, gentlemen in leather jackets, sarongs, and spiked dog collars stop us.  I assume these guys are security guards…?  Not sure.

There is a small game of Twister as I extract myself from the back of the limo.  The execs all shout contradictory advice at me.  I almost forget to grab the contract in the hubbub.

And then I am escorted through the gates and onto the Whitehorne property.  I can’t help but notice that all the hedges are trimmed and sculpted into the figures of naked women.  **_Really_** big-breasted naked women.  There is a fountain on the large grounds, numerous golf carts which seem to be abandoned in random locations, and about an army of Mexicans tending exotic-looking plants and flowers.  I think I see chimpanzees in the trees, but I can’t be sure.

There is a helipad with two helicopters on it.  There is a football field-sized parking lot almost filled with luxury cars, all bright fire-engine red.  In the distance, I can see large iron cages and I think I hear the trumpeting of elephants.  There is an amphitheater and the remains of a rock concert scattered everywhere.  Gaven Whitehorne’s neighbors must hate him.

My escorts and I stroll past all of this opulence and to the main house, which is larger and grander than the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  We ascend a massive staircase into the Main Foyer, which could house my apartment building.  There are giant palm trees in here, all reaching for the skylight far, far above us.  I see white columns and crystal and murals painted into the walls and ceiling.  The air is cool and scented.  Opposite us, there is a bank of glass doors leading out to a perfectly-clear swimming pool, custom-wrapped into the Initials G.W.

I have to admit it; I’m impressed.  I don’t know if Gaven’s taste is to my liking, but there is a sort of classical feel to the place which-

Oh, wait.  I just looked closer at one of the murals.  They depict a tribe a voluptuous naked women frolicking… and other activities… with wild-eyed pro wrestlers and zombies.  And Greek centaurs.

Well, the centaurs are a classical reference, at least.

The security guys depart.  At the same time, I hear the clicking of a great many high heels approaching.  On either side of the Grand Foyer are two marble staircases; descending one of those staircases are about a dozen women.  Young women.  Young women wearing only thongs and heels.

The ladies pass by me, chatting among themselves, smiling politely.  There’s a **_lot_** of jiggling silicon in this crowd.  They glance at me while heading to the pool.  Half of them shimmy out of their bottoms.  Some of them plunge into the water, others stretch out for a tan.

This place is like someone tried to cross-breed Club Med with the Playboy Mansion.  They were hoping to glean sophistication and culture, but instead they got tastelessness and sleazy.

“Are you Carrie?” a woman’s voice says beside my shoulder.

I jump a foot in the air.  When the topless procession came by, I didn’t notice another young woman approach.  Now she stands slightly behind me, perhaps pleased with herself for her stealth.

My heartrate returning to normal, I glare at this… person.  She is mid-twenties, and I have to say right off the bat: she’s only wearing bright red high heels.  Just the heels.  Her waist is incredibly thin, which makes her grapefruit-sized breasts obviously fake.  Expensive and well-shaped, but fake.  She has long blonde hair, cascading from her beautiful face and down her back.  She is wearing too much makeup and has a slightly sleepy expression.

“I’m Tiffany,” the girl says in an incredibly nasal voice.  She extends a hand.  Her nails are three inches long and decorated in rainbows.

“Hi,” I grouse.  “I’m here from AGA.”  I hold up the leather contract.  “If I could deliver this to Mr. Whitehorne-“

“Yes, of course,” sniffs Tiffany.  “This way, please.”

Tiffany heads towards the pool, wobbling a little on those enormous heels.  I follow, hugging the contract to my chest.  The Grand Foyer is lined with balconies, and now I see the heads of curious nude people peering down at me.  Man, there’s a lot of naked flesh here.

I attempt conversation with Tiffany.  “So,” I ask, “are you Mr. Whitehorne’s… butler?”

“Oh, I don’t do butt anything,” Tiffany snaps.  “But you should talk to Shoshanna if that’s your thing.”

We pass through the glass doors and through the pool area.  There are nude girls splashing in the water, nude girls sprawling on the (leather!) lawn chairs, nude girls drinking or smoking something at one of the three open bars, nude girls playing badminton, even four nude girls posing before the rosebushes for an artist, painting away on his easel.  I’ve seen more exposed breasts here than I saw all year in my high school locker room.

Tiffany leads me to what is sort of an elevated pavilion overlooking the entire pool, an open room lined with Greek columns and hanging silk.  Up here is a throne-like chair, another open bar made from crystal, and a series of padded benches.  The whole thing reminds me of the court of a Roman emperor or something.

There is a Chinese chef off to one side, working on something that smells delicious.

There is also a huge hulking man dressed in a simple white thong and flip-flops.  This guy has a thick chin, buzz cut, and beady little eyes, all which make him look incredibly stupid.  He can’t be older than twenty-five, and every one of his muscles is oversized.  Seriously, he looks like a superhero on steroids.

“This is Thog,” Tiffany tells me, giving the he-man an appreciative pat on the shoulder.  “He’s our exotic massage guy.  I don’t think he understands English good, but he’ll take care of you.”

To Thog, she yells: “Thoggy!  Can you make Carrie feel nice-nice for Mr. Whitehorne?”  To me, Tiffany explains, “Thog’s massages feel best if you’re not wearing anything.  FYI.”

Thog’s eyes bulge slightly, and he moves toward me.

“Wait!” I cry, alarmed.  “I don’t need a massage!”

Thog looks hurt, but I don’t care.

“Okay, okay,” Tiffany drawls, rolling her eyes.  “Here, sit.  Mr. Whitehorne will be here soon.  Lemme get you a drink.”

I sit as far away from Thog as I can.  He gazes at me without expression, as if he’s concentrating to be ready in case I change my mind.

“Here,” says Tiffany, and hands me a dark glass.

I look inside and wonder what I’ve been served.  It fizzes like soda, looks like oil runoff, and smells like grass clippings.

“Uh…” I say.  “I’m good.  Thanks.”

“You want something to snort, hon?” Tiffany insists.

“No!” I say quickly.  “Thank you.”

“Enjoy,” Tiffany grunts, and flaunts her way back towards the pool.

I set the noxious drink on the ground and look about, wondering how soon I can get out of here and back to Earth.

There is a commotion on the far side of the pool, and I realize Gaven Whitehorne, plus entourage, has arrived.  Its impossible to miss him; everywhere Gaven goes, he seems to lead a parade.  I squint, and while I’m not sure, it looks like this gang Gaven has in tow are an entirely new cast of weirdos and psychopaths than the group he brought to AGA.

Gaven meanders in my general direction, once again wearing black leather pants and sunglasses.  This time a white silk robe billows from his bony shoulders.  As he moves, some of the girls pop up to hug or kiss him, giggling non-stop.  Disgusting.  He loves the attention, making sure to squeeze at least one breast of each fan.  Even more disgusting.

And then Gaven and his hangers-on are in the pavilion.  Everyone assumes a seat.  I’m impressed at how many piercings these people have.

“Shalaza!” Gaven slurs when he sees me.

Wasting no time, he stumbles to my side and plops down next to me.  Within seconds, those scrawny arms are wrapped around me and – Oh God – he’s making the kissy-kissy noises again.

A fat woman in his entourage wearing nothing but a trenchcoat sees this and says, “Awwww…!” as if witnessing true love.

Time to accomplish my mission.  “Mr. Whitehorne,” I announce, “I’ve brought you this.”  And I thrust the contract at him.  Which neatly pushes the scuzzy rock star about three inches away.

“Ah, lovey, ah all a schoochy whoochy,” Gaven tells me in a baby voice, waggling his eyebrows.

“Yes,” I say in a clipped tone.  “If you could please review and sign that, I’ll be on my way.”

Gaven regards me as if puzzled.

“You a drinky?” he asks.

I think he’s asking me if I was served a beverage.  “Yes, thank you,” I reply.

“Honka!” Gaven bellows.  Tiffany appears at his elbow.

“S’lallah flurb?” the rock star demands of his naked… uh… servant.

“The one with the rhino horn aphrodisiac?” Tiffany asks.  “Yeah, Gavey, that’s the one I gave her.  You want one too?”

“Plurble w’Thog?” growls Gaven, apparently frustrated.

“No, she didn’t want one.”

Thog hangs his head in shame.

Gaven stews.  Then he looks at me.  A wicked and badly lopsided smile crawls across his withered face.

“Ah, lovey,” he says to me, “you ah all hard t’get, eh?  Wull, Gavie’s got yer cushy-cushy.  Not t’worry none.”

Gaven sets aside the contract, then takes my hand.  I allow him to propel me off the couch and to the throne at the center of the pavilion.

“’ere, birdie,” the rock star exposes, “plump yer tushie ‘ere.  We make it alllllllllllllllllllll rightie.”

I sit in the throne-chair and impatiently cross my arms.

“Mr. Whitehorne,” I say crossly, “if you could **_please_** sign AGA’s contract, I’ll-“

“Whoa, naw naw naw naw naw,” Gaven interrupts, wagging a shaky hand at me.  “Fir’s, you a talk-o wit’ me bud-bud Whimple.”

Whimple?

A chubby twenty-something guy in the new entourage stands and approaches.  This guy is probably Chinese or Korean, dressed in a truly atrocious Hawaiian shirt, almost non-existent shorts, and bunny slippers.  Pink bunny slippers.  His hair is organized into large purple spikes, almost as if his head had ambitions to become a cartoon hedgehog.  Whimple has a side smile but half-closed eyes, as if he knew a secret they rest of us don’t.

“Whimple tell y’all abouts wha’ we don’ a-ghargh bam,” Gaven explains, stepping backwards.

“Whoa, chick, your name is Carrie… right?” Whimple asks, in a perfect Valley accent.

I sigh.  “Yes,” I acknowledge.

Whimple starts waving his hands and wriggling his fingers.  “Look at me, Carrie,” he says, his voice taking a singing-like quality.  “Look into my eyes.  My eyes, Carrie.  Let yourself gaze into my eyes, and feel yourself… relax.  Become perfectly relaxed…  Look into my eyes, and-“

“Oh my God!!!” I explode.  I’ve had it.  “Are you people all **_insane???_** ”

Everyone – the people in the pavilion, the nude girls in the pool, the naked people in the house, the Mexican gardeners, the chef, the artist, Tiffany, Whimple, Thog, and especially Gaven Whitehorne – gape at me.

“What are you **_possibly_** thinking?” I screech at Gaven.  “You can’t massage me or drug me so you’re going to **_hypnotize_** me?  **_How lame can you get???_**   I’ve seen cartoon villains with more strategy than you!  You have got to be the **_WORST_** seducer in the Great Eternal History of Very Slimy Men!!!”

Oh, I’ve stepped in it now.  Maybe it’s the heat under this woolen turtleneck.  I don’t care.  Gaven Whitehorne and his colony of perversion and decadence has trampled across my last nerve.

Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.  I might as well let the God of Rock what I really think of him.  “ ** _You are,_** ” I let fly, “ ** _the scuzziest, filthiest, most perverted, most depraved, most demented, most_ DISGUSTING _male specimen I have ever seen, nor – no doubt –_ EVER _will see!  The only thing sadder than your hopeless attempts at seduction is your penis size and/or the thought that your warped and despicable music is currently shaping the minds of America’s next generation!  Oh, if there was_ NO OTHER _man in all of creation and the very continuation of homo sapiens depended on me carrying your children, then weep for the species, baby, ‘cause there is no way, no how, no possibility, no conceivable permutation of fate which would have me exist IN THE SAME ROOM AS YOU!!!_** ”

For extra measure, I toss in:  “ ** _PIG!!!_** ”

There is dead silence in all directions.  All of Gaven’s housemates stare at me, petrified, their jaws unhinged.  In the distance, we hear a lone elephant trumpet.

Gaven grins.  “Aw baby,” he coos.  “We c’work it alllll out, no fujiggles.”  To the fat woman sitting beside him, he comments, “See, ah told yer…  Carrie’s one hot mama, ah luve her cute widdle tam-tams.  Ma’gupple…!”

He waggles his fingers at me, making the kissy-kissy noises yet again.

I collapse back into the throne, beyond frustrated.

“A fruble!” coos Gaven.

“Mr. Whitehorne,” I say levelly, my rage gone, “I am **_never_** going to get it on with you.  Can you please sign the contract or not, so I can go home?”

Gaven’s expression freezes, and then his smile melts.  I patiently wait for his answer.

The rock star stumbles toward me; soon we are face-to-face.

“Tell yer wha’,” he says in a quiet voice.  “If yer listen t’ Whimple, fer five minuto’s, ah sign yer contract.  No kaziggies.  Dig?”

He extends a wobbly hand.

“Five minutes?” I repeat, suspicious.

“Pluub,” promises Gaven.

I sigh, considering my options.  If I return to AGA without Gaven’s John Hancock, it is **_HIGHLY_** likely Ted Bingsly and the suits will blame me and who knows if I’ll have a job by this time tomorrow.  On the other hand, if I obtain that golden signature… well, that would solve everyone’s problems.  Right?

Besides, I seriously doubt this… Whimple… fellow could possibly hypnotize me.  He doesn’t even look like he could put a baby to sleep.  He looks like he’d have a hard time figuring out how to make a bowl of cold cereal.

Way back in high school, a stage hypnotist came for our junior prom.  **_That_** guy knew his stuff.  I got coaxed into volunteering for him with a bunch of my girlfriends, and I was the only one who didn’t go under.  I didn’t just not go under, I never even felt the slightest bit sleepy.  If the worst that that guy had to offer didn’t affect me, I can’t see how I have anything to worry about now.

Fine.  I’ll agree to this ludicrous exchange, let Whimple try to put the whammy on me, fail, and then I get Gaven to sign on the X.  All-in-all, this could have been a whole lot worse.

“Okay,” I tell Gaven.  “I’ll listen.  Five minutes.  You just better hold up your end of the bargain.”

The rock star nods solemnly.  He backs off, and Whimple approaches yet again.

“Now, Carrie,” the Hawaiian shirt says, waving his hands, “look into my eyes…!  Look deeply!  Focus on my voice, and allow your body and mind to relax…!  Relax…!  **_Relax…!_** ”

I listlessly follow Whimple’s patter, impatient for the five minutes to be over already.  It so weird to be listening to this freakazoid, knowing that all these other people are watching me closely.  Ah, who cares?  Whimple goes on and on and I notice he’s mostly repeating himself.

Won’t it be a kicker when the five minutes are up and he realizes I can’t be hypnotized?

What did he just say?  My mind wandered.

Whatever.  I can’t be hypnotized.

I can’t be hypnotized.

I can’t be… hyp…  umm…

I… can’t…  …be…

…

***********


	3. Chapter 3

***DISCLAIMER 1***

This is a work of sheer fiction, and absolute smut at that. In no way, shape, or form could these events happen in real life.

***DISCLAIMER 2***

This work contains detailed descriptions of sex acts. Also, one character is coerced into the sex, so you might view all sex acts as nonconsensual. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 3***

This work involves a woman becoming mentally enslaved to a man, and he takes full advantage. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

***DISCLAIMER 4***

If you made it through Disclaimers 1 through 3, we should also add that this work is in very poor taste and is probably not suitable for anyone. If this offends you in any way, please read something else.

****************************************************************************************************************

 

I blink.

Wha….?  What just happened?

My mind must have wandered off for a moment.  Where am I?

Oh, right.  I remember!

I’m in the most happenin’ place on Earth, Casa Del Whitehorne!  To say every day here is a party is miss the big picture.  Every day at Chez Whitehorne is a Raise-the-Roof/Call-the-Cops/Everything-Goes/All-Out/Nonstop-Craziness/Fiesta!  Every day here is like Marti Gras, Cinco de Mayo, and the Super Bowl all rolled into one outrageous package!

I grin from ear-to-ear.  I’m so psyched to be here.

I look about.  There’s that Whimple guy, he was just talking to me about… something.  I can’t remember what.  Doesn’t matter.  And there’s all of Gaven Whitehorne’s guests, charming and intelligent and sexy people, each one of them.  They are all watching me, expectantly.

Well, let’s not disappoint!  I leap to my feet, and then scramble to stand on the throne.  I throw my arms into the air.  At the top of my lungs, I bellow, “ ** _WHO WANTS TO PARTY???_** ”

This gets ravenous applause.  Everyone stamps and cheers and whoops with joy at my question.  Somewhere, someone activates the sound system and rap music begins blaring on the property’s eight-foot speakers.  People immediately break into wild festivities.  There is drinking and laughing and dancing and other forms of debauchery breaking out all around me.

Oh, this is gonna be great!  The Bash of the Century, and I’m here to be a part of it!  I’m jumping up and down, waving my hands, screaming, “ ** _Whoa!!!  Whoa!!!  Party!!!_** ” like a woman possessed.

Wait a minute…  What the hell am I wearing?

I’m in a God-awful **_turtleneck sweater_** and **_slacks_** , for crying out loud!  What, was I prepared for a skiing weekend?  This will never do.

Without much thought, I throw away my sunglasses.  Then I strip off the sweater, my pants, and then my bra.  I’m in my panties and boots.  What the hell, I’ll lose the boots too.

Ah, that feels better.  The guys nearby stare openly at my body, but let ‘em.  I have a great body.  I have great tits.  Let ‘em look.  If they’re lucky they might-

Well, I’m getting ahead of myself.

I leap off the throne and head to the bar.  There’s a topless woman making drinks, who smiles at me in an almost pitying way.  “What’ll it be?” she asks.

“I don’t care!” I blurt out.  “Just make it strong, baby!”

As the bartender begins concocting, I barge into a conversation just to my left.  Three men and two women are arguing very loudly over who at this shindig has the nicest rack.

“That would be **_me_** , bitches!” I cry, waggling my shoulders, so my breasts flop back and forth.  Everyone agrees, cheering loudly, and then toasting my boobies.

I grab the nearest guy’s glass and pour his alcohol all over my chest.  “How you gonna drink up **_now?_** ” I ask him suggestively.  The guy seizes me and begins slurping on my breasts.  I laugh loudly.

Oh my God, this party is so crazy, and I’m having the **_best_** time.  Everyone around me seems to be locked in competition for who can make the most sin as quickly as possible.

I feel a tug at my elbow.  That Whimple guy is pulling me towards him, but talking to someone over his shoulder.  I hear him say, “Sorry, Gav.  I may have overdone it a bit.”

Gav?  Gaven?  **_Gaven Whitehorne?_**   Say, where is the big man?

Turns out, Gaven Whitehorne himself is the very dude Whimple is talking to.  Gaven and I make eye contact, and an enormous smile shines from his wrinkled face.

“Ay ay ay ay ay lovey!” the rock star beams.  He shakily extends his arms.

I smile, too.  I haven’t had much to drink, but somehow I feel wasted.

“You need a bath,” I candidly tell Gaven.

The smile drops off Gaven’s face instantly.  He glares at Whimple.

“Oh shit,” Whimple curses.

To me, he says, “Carrie, when I snap my fingers, Gaven Whitehorne is the sexiest, handsomest, most sophisticated, and cleanest man on earth.  You will be convinced there is no more perfect man for you in all of the universe.”

The Hawaiian shirt snaps his fingers, right in front of my face.  I’m not sure why he did that… aw, it doesn’t matter.

Holy shit!  Did I need glasses earlier?  Gaven Whitehorne is…

… ** _gorgeous!_**

No lie, its like Jon Bon Jovi, young Sean Connery, and Joe Montana all combined their DNA to make one super-cute ultrahunk.  I swoon before I can help myself.

“Hi there,” I say, feeling myself blush.

“Hello there,” Gaven replies.  Geez, was his voice always so rich and deep?

I gawk, not knowing what to say to this Adonis.  Now I know why Viv and all my other girlfriends went weak in the knees for this man.  Suddenly, I feel naked.

“Shall we go for a stroll?” Gaven asks me, offering his arm.

Oh man, does he have a **_French_** accent?  I love French.

The wild party that is exploding all around us seems to melt from my awareness.  Trembling a little, I take Gaven’s arm and allow him to pivot me away from everyone else.  Oh!  He smells like… an old Southern willow tree!  Wow!

The two of us stroll, Gaven in his exquisitely pressed suit, and me only in my underwear bottoms.  When did Gaven put on this suit?  I can’t remember.  Oh well, he looks **_so good_** in it.  I steal an admiring glance at him; his grace and sophistication are wonderful.

Gaven leads me away from the revilers, towards a small gazebo at the back of the property.  I hope we’ll be alone there.  I cast a quick glance over my shoulder, but the party is in full swing without us and there’s no sign that we’re missed.

And then we are in the tiny little shelter.  There’s a set of white wicker furniture here, with padding for comfort.  Gaven sits me down on a long bench, then sits next to me.  He sits close; I can smell him.  He intoxicates me…

 _Steady, Carrie,_ I tell myself.  _Don’t fall in love._

“You’re beautiful,” Gaven murmurs, and begins kissing my neck softly.

I let out a long, unsteady breath.  On their own, my fingers touch Gaven’s stomach muscles; God, he must work out daily.

“Tell me about yourself,” whispers Gaven in that perfect French accent.

 _Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh…!_   I’m really aroused.  Its hard to think straight when your perfect man starts kissing your almost-nude body.  I swallow, forcing my thoughts to momentarily clear.

“I… uh…” I struggle.  “I’m an actress.”

“An actress?” Gaven repeats softly.  He moves even closer, his fingertips gently running up my sides and my leg.  He smiles.  “What have I seen you in?”

“N-N-Nothing, yet,” I stammer.  “I mean… I mean, I haven’t yet…”

“But you’re so beautiful,” Gaven argues.  His lips have moved to my cheek.  One hand gently caresses my breast.

“No,” I sigh, having the hardest time keeping my thoughts in order.  “They say… ohhhhh…  I haven’t the training…”

Gaven smiles.  “Training.  You think I had training when I started out?”

I try to answer him, but his hands are rubbing my breast and the inside of my thighs.  My eyes close all on their own.  I wish his fingers would stroke me in my pussy.

“Never mind,” chuckles Gaven.  “I know what we should be doing.”  He kisses my neck again, in the secret spot.

I melt against him, letting go of my last bit of resistance.  Why am I resisting this guy, anyway?  He’s got me so wet, we’re all alone, he’s physically perfect, for christsakes!  He’s literally my dream man.  What am I waiting for?

I turn towards him, and our lips connect.  We kiss, at first just soft little kisses, barely making a sound.  I feel both of his hands on my chest, lifting my breasts slightly and squeezing them with just the right amount of pressure.  My nipples alight.

I swivel to face my entire body towards him and tug at his outer coat.  Before I know it, he’s shirtless and leaning over me; I’m being lowered back onto the mattress.  Oh god…!  My hands descend to his fly.

And that’s it.  As my fingers brush against his erection – still contained within his pants – its like I’ve tripped his sex alarm.  Gaven goes from being soft and slow to rocket-powered and lustful within seconds.  He stands, tearing off his own pants, and seconds later, he’s nude, on top of me, kissing my lips, my neck, my face madly.  Its like he’s a lion and I his sexual kill.

I love it.  I love all of it.  I kiss him back, grunting and moaning and whimpering and panting as my own loins go into overdrive.  Gaven is completely hard, and I feel his member slapping against my belly.  Man, I want him.  I want him so badly!  I thrust my tongue into his mouth and angle my hips toward him, hoping he gets the hint and fucks me hard.

We’ve only been going at it for sixty seconds, and both of us are ready to do each other.  Gaven is either incredibly patient or not getting my signals.  I reach down with one hand and gently touch his tip.

My man sighs happily, and I feel a bit of his cum squirt into my palm.  He’s ejaculating already?  We’re blowing this?

“Hurry!” I gasp.

Neither of us needs another word.  Gaven leaps off me, and I scramble to my hands and knees.  He may be naked, but I’m still in panties.  I’m kicking myself for wearing the full bikini bottoms instead of a sexy thong.  Oh well.

I feel Gaven’s fingers grasp my panties and yank!  In an instant, I am nude.  You know how a magician can remove a tablecloth without disturbing the table settings?  Yeah, Gaven is like that.  I still don’t know how he got my underwear past my knees or ankles.

I’m about to return to lying on my back when Gaven grabs my hips.  “Don’t move,” he half-warns, then shifts my legs apart slightly.  Oh God, I know what’s coming.

I have to say here that I’ve never liked being fucked from behind in doggie position.  There’s something… I don’t know, impersonal about it to me.  As the woman, you prostrate yourself and never see the guy as he drills you.  At least he has control and gets to stare at your ass.  But because you can’t make eye contact, doggie has always bugged me.  I don’t like getting laid in this position.

But now?  I have **_no_** qualms.  Fuck it, I’m **_eager_** for Gaven to pump me from behind.  I brace myself and wait for-

Ohhhhhhhh yeah.  There he is.

Gaven’s member rubs against my pussy, kissing it, saying, “Hello,” making me feel real, real good.  Honest truth?  This is my favorite part of sex.  I love that initial tease.  I love it more than the actual copulation, more than the sweaty cuddling after, more than silly pillow talk…  Hell, I love the initial teasing more than the orgasm itself.  Yeah, that’s right.  You heard me.  I can pleasure myself anytime I want to get an orgasm.  But only a skilled lover can tease me and make me desperate for the actual fucking.  I loooooooooove the tease.

And wow, does Gaven tease.  Its like he’s in my mind and know exactly how to work me.  I feel him brush up and down, up and down on my clit, and I’m actually whimpering and whining as he does it.  Oh, God!  As my head starts to thrash around, I glance down and see my hands are gripping the mattress like it’s a life preserver.

“Oh daddy,” I gasp.  “Please…?”

Gaven laughs, a kind, sparkling sound.  “You want it, baby?” he asks.  He sounds completely in control.

His tip strokes me, driving me wild.

“Yes!” I choke.  “Yes, please… inside!”

Does he want me to beg?  I’ll beg.  I’ll fucking beg and promise him I’ll be his horny little slave for all time if he will just start entering me right here, right now…!

There.  Gaven starts entering me, deep, real deep.  He proceeds in slow, taking his time to measure my depth.  Somehow he angles his dick to glide against my spot as he goes all the way in.  I cry out, so happy, so blissful.

Gaven retracts, then comes in again.  And again.  And again.  And… you get the picture.  Honestly, I start cumming after the third plunge and I keep going and going.

And then Gaven is off, pounding me like an oil well in full production.  He squeals in glee, but I am too stimulated to notice or care.  I’m somehow paralyzed by his magic cock, all my muscles are locked in place.

I love it.

I love **_him_**.

We fuck for… I dunno, a minute?  Two?  Three?  There’s no way to know how long.  I hold on and let him ram me, feeling the hot cum juice roll down in inside of my legs, loving every thrust and pull.  The two of us are screaming so loudly, I’m sure we’re drowning out the rap music.

Gaven gets faster and faster.  I feel a sharp push as he cums himself, deep within me.  I’m braced for it and ride it out as his body shakes and trembles.

And then…

Awwww.  He’s slowing.  I can hear him breathing loudly, wheezing actually.  My muscles start to return to my control.

And then, Gaven pulls out, even though he is still cumming.  I feel hot semen squirt over my back, and I giggle in pleasure at the feeling.  Gaven bellows, a beast roaring at nature itself.  He celebrates his conquest.  And I revel in mine.

As Gaven flops down beside me, I can’t help but think to myself:  **_I’ve fucked Gaven Whitehorne!_**

Somehow there is plenty of room for both of us on this little wicker bench.  I roll against him, snuggling against his lean and handsome body.  Such a cute body.

Gaven, still heaving for breath, encircles me in his arms.  I smile and close my eyes, breathing him in.

This part of sex is pretty awesome, too, I’ll admit.

And then, before I realize what is happening, my thoughts begin to dissolve…

…and I fall asleep.

***********

I’m not sure how I got home that night.  I’m not even sure how long I stayed the Whitehorne Mansion, to be honest.  The rest of the evening was a foggy blur, which my memory still has yet to penetrate.

What I do remember… somewhat… is being dressed in a Japanese robe or something by a number of Gaven’s women.  I am put into a car, then driven across the city to my apartment.  That Whimple guy is in the car, saying things to me, and for some reason, I believe everything he is telling me.

When I get home, I stagger to my bed.  My head touches the pillow… and I fall into a deep, deep sleep.

***********

The very next morning, I awake with a dry mouth, aching limbs… and the soreness between my legs which can only mean I had rough, dirty sex.  Oh God.  I stumble to the shower and scrub myself off.

While the hot water courses over my body, memories of the previous day come back to me in waves.  Oh God…!  I remember that ridiculous mansion.  I remember getting hypnotized.  I remember partying out-of-control, going topless…  Oh God.  I remember falling for the handsome, suave Gaven, and I remember the sex.  All of it.

Oh God.

I’m so humiliated.  I’ve heard how people get hypnotized in Vegas and spend the rest of their days trying to live down the embarrassment.  I totally know how they feel.  I went hook, line, and sinker for Whimple’s hypnotism, and I never once realized how completely he owned me.

At least the sex was excellent, I must admit.  Small consolation.

Oh… my… God!  Is that the time???  Its 11:30 am?

Fuck!  I’m so late for work!

***********

I dress at light speed, yanking on undies, blouse, stockings, Pretty Girl pantsuit, skirt, high heels, the works.  There isn’t time to properly do my hair, so I improvise something.  At the last minute, I grab my backpack.  I’m so fucking late that I call a cab and make the mistake of trying to apply make-up while my driver races over the Route 101 potholes.

Its nearly 12:30 pm when I reach the AGA offices.  Normally at lunchtime, people are chatting through the lunch hour, gossiping, laughing, joking around.  But as I enter the exec floor, everyone falls silent.  Everyone stares.  I turn white and wish I was invisible.

I find my water bottles, and for something to do, start organizing them.  You never know what client may come in today for-

“Well?”

I jump and spin around.  There, standing behind me, are Ted Bingsly and most of the AGA senior executives.  They all glare at me with deep anxiety in their eyes.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Well?” Ted repeats, that vein in his neck popping yet again.  “Did Gaven Fucking Whitehorne fucking sign???”

“I…” I say, unable to form words.

Wait.  In the back of my mind, I suddenly have a powerful urge to open my backpack.  It makes no sense, but… I must obey it.

My hands trembling, I ignore the jumpy execs and unzip my bag.

There, nestled within, is the leather-bound contract.  I pull it out slowly, like Arthur drawing the Sword from the Stone.  You can hear the A/C fans whirring as I slowly open the front page.

There, on the dotted line, is a single signature:  GAVEN WHITEHORNE.

We all stare at that legendary name.  Its right there, in black-and-white, legal and notarized and binding.  It practically shines with its own heavenly light.

Ted lets out an ear-splitting cowboy whoop and grabs the contract from my hands.  “ ** _We got him!!!_** ” he screams, holding the contract over his head.  “ ** _We got Gaven FUCKING Whitehorne!!!_** ”

The entire exec floor explodes into a roar of applause and cheering.

***********

Ted Bingsly and the execs spend the rest of the day congratulating one another and slapping backs.  Ted is awarded a sizable bonus for reeling in the big fish, and somehow half the suits figure out how to award themselves bonuses too.  In the end, champagne is popped and caviar is served and before too much longer, AGA is closed for the day while the powerful execs treat themselves to a celebration at a strip club.

I, and the rest of the Pretty Girls, are left behind to mind the store.  No other clients are scheduled for that day, so I pretty much arrange my water bottles and remain bored until it is time to go home.

***********

The rest of the week is thankfully uneventful.  While I can tell there’s a lot of suspicion as to how I actually convinced Gaven Whitehorne to sign, none of the girls dare ask me directly.

I’m certain I don’t want them to know.  Thankfully, no-one who witnessed my hypnosis-induced madness knows me in real life, so I think my debauchery will probably remain a secret from my co-workers.  Hell, I don’t even want Viv to know.

There is one thing which irks me, though.  I think back to my brief romance and fling with Gaven.  While I was under Whimple’s spell, I saw Gaven as a charming Frenchman, which the real life Gaven clearly is not.  But in that special time, I could have sworn he was interested in **_me_** , not just my body.  Is that possible?  Or did my hypnotized mind just invent all that sweet-talk he used on me?

I wish I knew.

***********


	4. Epilogue

Life goes on.  AGA signs another batch of up-and-coming TV stars, and I am moved from water bottles to hand towels.  Its treated as a big promotion, but trust me, it isn’t.  I’m really starting to wonder why I came to LA.

That night, Viv and I are debating if we should eat out when there is a knock on the apartment door.

“You expecting a date?” Viv asks me, surprised.

I frown.

At the door is a tall man in a tweed suit.  (Yes, tweed!)  He looks down at a piece of paper in his hand, and then up at me.  “Carrie Crowley?” he asks, surprised.  He has a thick British accent.

I’m suspicious immediately.  This guy wears a bow tie, argyle socks, carries a bowler hat, and smells like a tobacco shop.  He’s old enough to be my grandfather.

“Yes?” I ask cautiously.

“How do you do?” the man beams, extending a gaunt hand.  “I’m Horace Greenly.  I hope you don’t mind me dropping in so late, I was in the neighborhood and wanted to make your acquaintance.”

“Charmed,” I say dryly.  We shake hands.

“Forgive me, I haven’t properly introduced myself,” Horace sighs.  He hands me a business card:

HORACE GREENLY, C.S.A.

DRAMA INSTRUCTOR / ACTING COACH

MEETINGS AND WORKSHOPS BY APPOINTMENT ONLY

“I have been retained by one…” – Horace re-consults his paper again – “…Mr. Gaven Whitehorne, who has put down a sizable commission on your behalf, Ms. Crowley.  Normally I don’t like working with students who haven’t any previous credits, but Mr. Whitehorne was quite… ah, persuasive.”

Horace cocks his head to one side, a twinkle in his eye.  “I’ll have to schedule you around my A-List clients, of course, but how does Monday / Tuesday / Thursday nights work for you?”

“I think we can arrange something, Horace,” I say, grinning from ear to ear.

***********


End file.
